


Chains

by Brainygiirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 2018 Valentine's Day Challenge, Dom John, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Johnlock Roulette, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reeeeeeeeally Light Bondage, Smut, Song Lyrics, Songfic, Sub Sherlock Holmes, Tumblr Prompt, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 01:43:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13583343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brainygiirl/pseuds/Brainygiirl
Summary: Thanks toPretty Little Writerfor coming up with the 2018 Vday Challenge idea and serving as a Beta.Chainsby The Beatles, originally by The Cookies...They ain’t the kind, that you can seeWhoa, these chains of love,Got a hold on me, yeahChains, well I can't break away from these chains,Can't run around 'cause I'm not free… I can't break away from all theseChains…





	Chains

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tiaoconnell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiaoconnell/gifts).



> Tiaoconnell, who keeps on being an angel.
> 
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> <http://dawnfelagund.tumblr.com/post/170618220828/101-comment-starters>

THE PRESENT

“Sherlock? Sherlock. Sherlock!”

The curly-haired head was bent over the microscope, but John thought two feet was close enough to stand to infiltrate his concentration. Perhaps not. He flicked off the light under the slide tray and was rewarded. Sherlock lifted his face then turned with a frown, as if noticing John’s presence for the first time.

“I hope this is urgent. I was working, John.”

“Yes, I know, but you promised me a conversation at four o'clock and now it’s five.”

Sherlock checked his watch and sighed with irritation. “So it is.” He gestured toward the sitting room. “If we must,” and they made their way to their chairs.

Sherlock sat back in his chair, steepled his fingers and looked pointedly at John. “Well?”

John licked his lips, sitting forward eagerly. “Well. You remember we talked about the fourteenth.”

“Yes.”

“Saturday, the fourteenth.”

“Yes.”

"Tomorrow”

“Get to the point, John. Black Widows are fascinating and decay surprisingly quickly compared to arachnids such as the Six-Eyed Sand Spider. The Black Widow spins silk that on a per-weight basis has a ratio of strength to density greater than steel.”

“Obviously. Yes. Well. February fourteenth. The holiday?”

“Holiday. Can’t be Christmas again already!”

“No, Sherlock, Christmas is in December, no, February fourteenth, Valentine’s Day! Hearts, chocolates, flowers? Day for lovers?”

"Oh, that one. Obviously a marketing scheme, a campaign to delude the rabble into spending money they would be far better off investing. Instead they’re drawn into a futile attempt to prove their worth as a sexual—“

John interrupted, “Yes, all true, no doubt, but I’ve already gotten you a gift and since I don’t want chocolate or flowers, I’ve figured out what you can give me. And you won’t have to do a thing.”

Sherlock shot him a skeptical look. “That hardly seems in the spirit of the thing, John. Is that allowed?”

John gritted his teeth. “You are my husband and lover and as such you owe me a Valentine’s Day gift. That’s the rule.”

He got up out of his chair and deposited himself onto Sherlock’s lap. He wrapped his arms around his neck and whispered into his ear. “Now you can go out there and shop with the masses, desperate to prove themselves, and buy me something trivial and meaningless.” He wriggled his arse a little, making Sherlock sit up much straighter, and continued, “Or you can make me happy and give me what I really want.” John licked him, right behind his earlobe and whispered again, “Don’t you want to make me happy, Sherlock?”

Sherlock turned his face so he could rub his cheek against John’s and closed his eyes. John kissed the corner of his eye, then his temple and then his cheekbone. Breathlessly, Sherlock said, “I do. I do want to make you happy.” John lowered his mouth and kissed Sherlock’s upper lip, and then the lower one. He slid his tongue right along the crease between the two of them. Sherlock opened his mouth, but John pulled back, making Sherlock chase him a bit.

“Tell me what will make you happy. I’ll get it. I’ll take care of it, whatever it is.” John caressed his cheeks and tilted up his jaw and kissed him more deeply. Sherlock grabbed him and pulled him closer, trying to prolong the kiss, but John pulled away again and said, “That’s the beauty of this gift, love. You don’t have to do anything. I’ll take care of everything.” John whispered in his ear again. “You just have to lie back and enjoy yourself. You don’t even have to move. Just lie still and let me do what I want to you.” He took Sherlock’s earlobe between his teeth and squeezed it ever so gently, then sucked it like a baby with a dummy.

Sherlock said, or more precisely, groaned, “Yes, yes, whatever you want.”

John let go with a loud slurp and asked, “Promise?” and returned to licking and sucking on his neck this time, just enough to leave a little redness behind. Sherlock’s head rolled alarmingly on his neck and John steadied it. He kissed him full on the lips and tilted his head so that he was looking right at his eyelids. He repeated, “Promise?” And again, “Promise?” He jiggled Sherlock’s head a little. Sherlock had to exert a great effort to open his eyes and breathe. He blinked a little and tried to find John’s eyes, then nodded. “Promise.”

John smiled at him fondly and Sherlock closed his eyes again and let his head drop onto the back of the chair. John set about kissing everything he could reach and undoing a few buttons so he could reach a little more. In between the kisses, he kept speaking, but the words were registering only intermittently for Sherlock.

“…Saturday…eight o'clock… showered and naked… bed...” Sherlock tried to focus on what he was hearing. “no need to worry… Hudson… I’ll take care of everything.”

“Wait. What? What are you saying?” He sat up. “Naked? Lie still you said? Let you? What? Let you what?” He pushed John away from where he had gone back to sucking on his neck and he finally let go with a kind of wet popping noise. “What did you just make me promise?”

John gave him the wide-eyed look of innocence, the one that usually exonerated him from things like illegal weapons possession, but it had lost its impact on Sherlock, who stood up and dumped John off his lap.

He started rapid-fire deduction.

“You pulled me away from a very intriguing experiment, forced me into a discussion of scheduling trivia and irrelevant social niceties, flooded my nervous system with oxytocin and endorphins, all of which dulled my analytical skills. You overwhelmed my physical senses, whispering and tickling my skin, smelling and tasting like your intoxicating self, and arousing me for dubious purposes. While I was addled, you seduced me into a commitment, which you will not allow me to break, under the pretenses of an essentially meaningless festive social construct. Obviously, this has something to do with last weekend’s,” he searched for the correct term, “pissing contest between you and Gavin, trying to outdo each other’s alleged histories of sexual versatility. And now you are going to use me, experiment on me, exploit me, John, and my adoration of you, to further your reputation as a sexual god. Admit it.”

ONE WEEK PRIOR

 

A week ago, when John dragged Sherlock to the pub for a pint with Greg, the pint had turned into 3 or 4 and somehow the conversation turned to the reputation of a certain Captain “Three Continents” Watson and the upcoming Valentine’s Day Weekend. Greg had pressed him for his most adventurous episodes but as the level of intoxication increased, the quality of the discourse degenerated. By the end of the evening they were trying to outdo each other with unbelievable tales of debauchery. The topic that finally broke up the evening was bondage. Whips and chains, to be specific. Sherlock’s look of horror and disgust sent the revelers into hysterical laughter and when John finally snorted lager out of his nose, it was clearly time to go home. Greg’s parting shot had been a hearty Happy Valentine’s Day to John. “Don’t turn your back on him, Sherlock. Your baby’ll have you locked up in chains before you’ve got your trousers off!”

John yelled back, “Shut up, Inspector! Those are trade secrets!” Hysterical laughter from the two of them accompanied the rolling of eyes from Sherlock.

The next morning, or rather afternoon when John was capable of speech, he tried to explore Sherlock’s response to the idea of restraints. He was lying on the sofa, while Sherlock employed a surgical knife to carve up something hairy on the kitchen table. He began with feigned innocence. “We had a good time with Greg didn’t we. Funny conversation. I’m curious though, Sherlock.”

“Sherlock. Sherlock!”

“Hmm.”

“Look at me a second. Sherlock!”

Sherlock lifted only his eyes from a gelatinous, black mess. John thought the arachnid phase had ended with the Brazilian Wandering Spider.

“Hmm. Hurry. Sydney Funnel Web Spiders are very rare and--”

“Yes, right. My question is, that is, I don’t understand. Out of all the kinks we were talking about, what is it about bondage that gives you such a squick?”

Sherlock sat up straight and stared at him, unblinking.

“Uh, sorry. Squick. Uh. An uncomfortable feeling.” John pause. “But, come to think of it,” now John sat up, “Irene’s proclivities didn’t seem to disturb you, did they? I seem to recall you being somewhat, let’s say, intrigued by her hobbies. Couldn’t even look away, could you?” He stood. Sherlock was reorientated by the prickling of his skin, triggered by the primal threat of John’s simmering resentment. He looked up at his narrowed eyes and clenching fists. Oh dear. Bit not good.

Survival instincts triggered, the genius responded immediately. “Another example of how you see, John, but fail to observe. I was thoroughly repelled by The Woman’s occupation.”

John licked his lips and relaxed his shoulders. Target acquired. Of course, Sherlock was telling only a partial truth. He’d found some of her proclivities thoroughly intriguing. He pouted as a diversionary tactic. “I’m somewhat disappointed that you are still threatened by a,” he waved his hand around vaguely and made a mental note to encrypt The Woman’s contact info on his mobile, “non-entity who was never any threat to your complete possession of my heart. And other… assorted parts.”

John looked down, ashamed of himself. Target locked on. Sherlock evaluated. “Perhaps I’ve failed in providing evidence of my devotion to you. I shall endeavour to more effectively demonstrate my affection, moving forward.” He sighed, sadly.

“Nonsense. You’ve been nothing but warm and cuddly,” John said as he walked quickly over to Sherlock and hugged him from behind, kissing him on the top of his head. Sherlock looked back at him and smiled. Target neutralized.

John sat down at the table. Sherlock returned to the carnage and John grimaced at the remains of the, what was it? The Australian funneling something?--that was on the table. He averted his eyes and made his own mental note to get it into the bin before it took up residence in the fridge. “I still don’t understand. About your response, I mean. What about that in particular puts you off so?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Obviously, John, unlike most people, I’ve actually experienced whips, and chains as true restraints, and I assure you the context was as far from sexual as you could possibly imagine. Why would anyone enter into such a vulnerable position voluntarily and expect to experience pleasure?”

John had never pushed Sherlock to discuss his Serbian ordeals, but Mycroft had shown him the reports and he’d seen the scars. He nodded in sympathy and understanding. “I know that you’ve been tortured, Sherlock and I would never try to minimize your suffering. I wish I had been there.” He clenched his fists again and Sherlock reached for his hand. He unlocked his fingers and kissed his palm.

John smiled at him and kept on. “But the brain is complicated. It gets confused. Look at me. I hated Afghanistan, it almost killed me. But as soon as I was safe, I was bored to death. I missed the violence of it so much, I hooked myself to you and your danger and chaos. Ella says sometimes we seek out what we fear to try and conquer it. And surviving it, taking control over it, beating the fear, no matter what it is, triggers pleasure. Different kinds of course, for different people, but for some of us—them, it’s sexual.”

Sherlock looked up at him and John blushed under the scrutiny, but maintained eye contact. Without a word, Sherlock began dissecting again and John assumed the conversation was finished. Later that evening, however, out of the blue, while John was searching the fridge, and Sherlock had his head buried in “Laboratory Testing in Monitoring the Effects of Brown Recluse Spider Bites” he said without looking up, “That, ah— thing that you said. That you, um, you explained before. That was, um… good.”

John gave as good as he got. “Hmm.” But he smiled wickedly as he removed the petri dish of tarantula bits from the crisper and binned it.

THE PRESENT

John got up off the floor and grinned with shameless pride. He put his hands on his hips and said, “Basically. Yes.”

Sherlock shook his head disapprovingly. “Shame on you, Three-Continents Watson. What exactly have you plotted to force me into? Is this about that…thing? That you…you know.”

John grabbed him around the waist and kissed the hollow of his throat. He opened another of his shirt buttons and stroked his chest, making sure to run the pad of his index finger over Sherlock’s right nipple. “Do you trust me?”

Sherlock inhaled sharply and grabbed his wrist. He looked down at him with suspicion, but huffed out a breath in resignation. “What do I have to do?”

John was magnanimous in victory. “That’s the beauty of it. Nothing. Not a thing. You don’t have to do anything. Just be naked on the bed at eight o'clock tomorrow night and I will take care of everything. And, uh, don’t worry. I got Mrs Hudson tickets to see Iron Maiden.” He kissed him and headed for bed, whistling cheerfully.

All day long Saturday, John was nonchalant, while Sherlock pretended to be bored. He twitched and scraped at his violin, paced, ostensibly searching the internet, all the while oblivious to his actual emotional state. John quietly savored Sherlock’s nervous anticipation and studiously avoided touching him. He knew Sherlock was subconsciously craving contact, which in spite of his denial, invariably soothed his nerves. He was enjoying keeping him on edge.

At six, Mrs Hudson called out, “Ooh-hoo, boys. Can I pop up for a second? I have a Valentine’s Day thank you for you.” She appeared with a heart-shaped chocolate cake and John gave her a peck on the cheek, while Sherlock scowled. She ignored it and pulled him down for a kiss on the forehead. “It was so sweet of you to get me those tickets. I haven’t seen them in ages! And of course it means that you’ll be free to enjoy yourselves this evening as well. I hope you have plans.” She gave Sherlock a cheeky smile and he blushed instantly.

“I thought you were above such childish sentiment, Mrs Hudson.”

“Oh, nonsense you silly boy. Love isn’t childish. Not if you’re doing it right.”

John looked down and smiled. “Sherlock, I’m going to walk out with Hudson. I want to pick up a few last minute things. You’ll be alright?”

“Of course, John, I’m not a child—“ He cut himself off and John and Mrs Hudson burst into laughter. Sherlock huffed and turned his back on them, screeching on his violin.

As he followed Mrs Hudson out, John turned back casually and over his shoulder, called, “Eight o’clock, don’t forget.” He didn’t expect an answer and he didn’t get one.

He got home an hour later replete with hackneyed Valentine’s Day accessories: chocolate covered strawberries, pink candles, champagne, flowers, a frilly greeting card and a small rectangular package wrapped in red paper and a lacy doily, tied up with a pink satin ribbon. He dumped everything on the table and bustled about the kitchen, retrieving a vase and putting up a pot of water for pasta. Sherlock rolled his eyes but reached for the package. John grabbed it first and held it behind his back, grinning. “No you don’t. Eight o’clock, remember? And no deducing before then!” The stern look was accompanied by a finger poking into Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock blushed yet again, and stammered, “What’s for dinner?” to change the subject. John put the package back in the center of the table and said, “It won’t take long. A recipe of Angelo’s. Spaghetti with oyster sauce.” He looked at Sherlock from under his eyelashes. “You know what they say about oysters.” Sherlock swallowed hard. John stepped into Sherlock’s space and somewhere on the scale between whisper and growl, said, “Why don’t you take a shower? Do a good job. Thorough, you know?” His pupils were dilated and he edged closer and carefully pushed up his chin to close his mouth, which had dropped open at some point. “Pasta will be done by the time you finish.”

Sherlock seemed incapable of initiating any movement, so John turned him round by his shoulders and gave him a shove.

Dinner was indeed done when Sherlock returned, resplendent in a blue silk dressing gown and purple boxers. The table was set, candles were lit and all accoutrements in place. They flirted all through dinner, twirling their arms to drink their champagne, feeding each other strawberries and chocolate cake and trading innuendoes. Eventually, John looked theatrically at his watch and said, “Oh, quarter of eight! You have somewhere to be, don’t you? Don’t want to be late.” Sherlock froze, then started to rise. John grabbed his wrist and said, “You should open your gift first, though.” He handed the small box to him.

Sherlock took it carefully and asked the question with his eyes.

“Go ahead, try. You’ll never figure it out.”

The thrill of the chase lit in Sherlock’s eyes and John licked his lips at the sight of his hunter. Sherlock hefted it, trying to gauge the weight. A gram for the box, maybe two for the contents? What could possibly be so light? Couldn’t be any type of jewelry; wasn’t a typical shape anyway. John smirked. His brilliant detective was puzzled already. He shook it, but obviously, John had thought far enough ahead to wrap whatever it was in tissue and the sound was indistinct at best. Sherlock’s nose crinkled in frustration. Next he sniffed. Nothing. He held it up to the light.

John sat back with his arms crossed, thoroughly pleased with himself. “Just give up, Sherlock. Not even you will be able to figure it out.”

Sherlock glared at him, refusing to concede. “I’m not giving up. I’ll go layer by layer.” The ribbon slipped off with a tug. He examined it fruitlessly. The doily was next and he rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. Nothing. He turned the package upside down and delicately peeled the sellotape off, testing the adhesiveness and clarity of it. The paper was as non-descript as everything else. The box itself was white and featureless. John laughed at his irritation and Sherlock frowned and opened it. He peeled away the tissue and just stared.

Inside was a tiny spool of golden thread. He looked quizzically at John, who licked his lips and said, “Unwind some. Feel it? It’s real spider silk. It’s almost transparent.” He took the spool back and unwound some of the thread. He held it up to the candlelight. “It’s stronger than steel, isn’t it?” Sherlock nodded. John snapped off a short length. “But in this thickness, it’s no match for a full-grown man. You couldn’t use it as a…oh, let’s say…” he looked up at Sherlock and licked his lips again, “a chain, for example. At least not the kind that you can see.” He gave the thread back and Sherlock ran his finger along a stretch of it, breathing shallowly through his open mouth.

John gave him a predatory smile and said, “Almost eight o’clock.”

Sherlock stood up suddenly, almost knocking over his chair, spool gripped tightly in his fist. He looked straight in front of him, turned stiffly and walked away.

John cleaned up what couldn’t wait, giving Sherlock enough time to get ready and then a little more just to keep him waiting. When John finally entered the bedroom, Sherlock was lying, naked on the bed and clutching the spool with white knuckles. He was pale as marble with the curtains open, letting in streetlight. He glowed. John stopped and stared. He could feel the swelling in his trousers, which had begun during his explanation of the thread, growing as he looked at the vision before him. He shifted his legs to give himself more room. “Beautiful. You are just the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I’m going to take you apart.” Sherlock took a deep shuddery breath. John walked over and sat next to him on the bed. He unclenched Sherlock’s fingers and pried the spool from his right hand. He held his hand and kissed his palm. He laid it gently in his lap. He unwound some of the golden thread and began to tie the end of it around Sherlock’s wrist. When he finished the knot he kissed his pulse point. He looked into Sherlock’s eyes for a few tense seconds and asked, “Is this ok?” Sherlock swallowed and nodded.

John said, “Say it. Tell me if this is ok or not.”

“This...” Sherlock croaked and paused. He cleared his throat before trying again. “This is ok.”

John kept running his thumb over the thin skin of the inside of his wrist. “There are all kinds of rules for games like these, Sherlock. Safewords, hard limits, soft limits, but you don’t have to worry about any of that. We’re only going to need two. Two rules. First rule. If you don’t like something, say stop. You say stop and I stop and that’s the end of it. You’re in charge. You decide. If you want to stop, I won’t be upset or disappointed. I’m so grateful that you trust me so much that you’re letting me try this out with you. For you. You just have to say stop. Ok?”

Sherlock nodded and John looked at him expectantly.

“Ok.”

“That’s rule number two. You have to talk. As in, use your voice. You have to talk, it’s very important that you keep talking to me, Sherlock. I won’t know what you want unless you say it out loud. I won’t know if you’re really ok, unless you talk to me. Sometimes you won’t know what you want unless you say it out loud. Or, sometimes, you’ll think you want it, but when you hear yourself saying it, you’ll realize you don’t. Do you understand?”

Sherlock nodded again and John smiled at him. He smiled back and said, “I understand, I have to keep talking.” John kissed his forehead.

“What if you want to stop?”

“I say stop.”

“Tell me again.”

“If I want to stop, I say stop.”

“And what will I do?”

“You’ll stop.”

“That’s right. Good boy.” Sherlock gave the tiniest of gasps and his eyes opened the tiniest bit wider, which John noted with interest. “Will I be upset?”

“No. You won’t be upset.”

“Who’s in charge?”

“I’m in charge.”

“Very good.” He kissed his pulse again. “Shall I keep going?”

Sherlock nodded, then remembered and smiled at himself, embarrassed.

John smiled warmly at him and stroked the hair from his forehead. “What’s rule number two?”

“I have to talk.”

“Say it again. What do you have to do?”

“I have to talk. I have to keep talking.”

John leaned down and kissed him again. “Good boy. Now. Should I keep going?”

Sherlock said, “Yes, please.” Then, very seriously, “Keep going.” His pupils were blown wide open.

John said, “Ok. One more thing. I want to show you about being in charge.” He snapped the thread off the spool. “See? I’m not going to be restraining you. You’re going to be restraining yourself. But only if you want to. See?” He snapped another length of thread off. “Do you understand?””

“I understand, John.” He took a deep breath. “I’m in charge. Keep going.”

John gave him a hungry smile with half-lidded eyes. He stuck his tongue out and licked his lower lip. “I’m going to tie your hand to the headboard now and I want you to pull on it slowly. I want you to feel how much you can pull it before it snaps.” He pulled Sherlock’s hand gently and placed his arm so it was halfway between overhead and stretched to the bedpost. It left his arm bent slightly at the elbow. He drew his fingertip down the inside of his arm and Sherlock shuddered. “Pull on it now. I want you to see how it feels. Pull on it. See how much room you have to move before it breaks.”

Sherlock pulled and stretched, up and sideways to understand the length of the thread. It was long enough for his upper arm to wind up perpendicular to the edge of the mattress, but not long enough for him to be able touch any other part of his body. He looked at John and said, “I see.”

John said, “Ok, now pull it slowly, and then snap it. See how much tension it takes.”

Sherlock looked up at where it was tied and started to increase the pressure of his pull until it was taut. He looked at John, who said, “Go on. Break it.” Sherlock looked back and gave it a tug and it broke. An infant could snap it. He looked at John and nodded.

John said, “If you get uncomfortable, a cramp, or an itch, or if you don’t like what’s happening, anything at all, you can break it, just like that.” He snapped his fingers for effect. “Ok?”

Sherlock licked his lips. “Ok. Ok, John.”

“Shall I keep on, then?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. “I’m tougher than the thread, John, get on with it.” His sarcasm was undermined a little by his open-mouthed panting.

John laughed and kissed him, full on the mouth this time. He redid the thread on his right hand and when he started on the left, Sherlock’s breathing got heavier. He said, “John.”

John froze immediately and sat down next to him, concern all over his face. “What? What is it, love? Are you ok? I’m stopping.”

Sherlock shook his head and pointed downwards toward his feet with his finger, careful not to pull on the thread. John twisted around and saw Sherlock’s cock standing at half-mast and swelling quickly. He looked back at Sherlock, breathing rather heavily himself, and gave him a fierce kiss, sweeping his tongue deep into his mouth and then tugging on his lower lip with his teeth. He growled at him. “God, you’re perfect. I can’t be this lucky.” He bit the side of his neck, sucking hard enough to bring a whimper from Sherlock, then then kissed him again. He went back to work. He fixed Sherlock’s left arm to match the right and let him wiggle around testing his range of motion.

John checked in with him again. “You alright? I can stop right here. Or we can try your legs as well. Or try them later or not at all. Whatever you want.”

Sherlock stared at him and nodded. John tickled over his ribs, and whispered in his ear, “Rule number two.”

Sherlock was practically gasping.

“Deep breaths, Sherlock. You’re going to hyperventilate and pass out before I even get started. Breathe with me. In and out.”

They breathed for a bit and John asked, “Now, should we stop at your arms or do your legs too?”

Sherlock took a deep breath and said, “Legs. Legs too.”

John kissed him and said, “That’s my brave boy.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and took another deep breath in and shakily sent it back out. John went to work on his left ankle, then finally the right. He fastened his legs to the footboard at about the same location as his arms on the headboard, leaving him room to move his legs from side to side a bit, but not enough to close them all together. He could bend his knees just enough to let some of the weight of them rest on his heels, but not without a little bit of a strain. Sherlock had his eyes closed and was clenching and opening his fists, pulling his arms as far down as the thread would allow him. He slid his heels up and down on the sheet. His cockhead was wet now. John stood up and said, “Open your eyes, and look at me Sherlock.” Sherlock opened his eyes and had to look around to find John. He was panting again.

John said, “You are gorgeous.” He walked around the bed slowly, with the spool in his hand and looked him over. Sherlock followed him with his eyes, his limbs in constant restrained motion. “Are you ok?”

It took him a couple of tries, but Sherlock finally got the words out. “I’m ok.”

“I haven’t even touched you yet and look how hard you are.” Sherlock looked and looked back at John with pleading eyes. “You’re going to have to breathe though. Deep breaths, remember?”

Sherlock repeated, “Deep breaths.”

“Good. That’s right.” He put the spool of golden thread down on the night table. “I’m going to touch you now.”

John sat on Sherlock’s left side and spread out his fingers on his stomach. He let it lie there for a few seconds, then laid his hand on his cheek. Sherlock closed his eyes and turned his face to rub against it. He moved his arm with the intention of covering John’s hand with his own. When it was caught up short by the thread, he was so startled, his eyes flew open and he stared at his own hand in confusion. John laughed, quietly, and Sherlock looked at him with a look of such ravenous lust, that the laugh was strangled in his throat. He crashed his lips into him, growling and sucking on his tongue like a starving animal. Sherlock lifted his chest up off the mattress striving to get closer and groaned when he couldn’t wrap his arms around him.

John pulled away and tried to catch his breath. He shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid we’re not going to be able to go as slowly as I would have liked.”

Sherlock was writhing, twisting his arse into the sheet in frustration at not being able to touch John, touch himself, touch something. Struggling to bring in enough air to form the words, he said, “Good. Take your bloody clothes off already.”

John nodded and stood up to strip without taking his eyes off him. It hurt to slide the jumper over his head and lose sight of him for even that moment. When he finished, he looked at himself, then back at Sherlock. “Look what you’ve done to me. I’m not going to last.”

Sherlock groaned in frustration and arching his back, he moaned, “Touch me. I need you to touch me.”

John climbed onto the bed and settled himself between Sherlock’s feet. He held Sherlock’s ankles, stilling his legs for the first time since they’d been tied. He moved up, forcing Sherlock to spread his legs wider and as he did, Sherlock thrust his hips up and down, stretching towards nothing he could reach. John sat back and watched him for a moment, then crawled up over him and laid down flat on top of him, touching as much of his skin with his own as he could, arms to arms, chest to chest and hips to hips. “I’m touching you, I’m touching everything I can reach."

He intertwined his fingers with Sherlock’s and Sherlock was twitching and trembling, like a piece of paper curling up in a flame. John ground himself down on top of him, trying to put out the fire, trying to drive down through him to the other side, just in case it was possible. Sherlock was doing his best pushing up against him on the other side. The friction between them finally drove John to pull away. “I can’t… I don’t want to finish yet, Sherlock. I wanna see you.”

He picked up his chest and sat back between Sherlock’s thighs again. Sherlock’s hips were twitching from side to side and John put one hand on him to fix him in place. He swirled the tip of his finger in the precome that was dripping from the head of Sherlock’s cock and slid it up the crack of his arse. When he slipped the tip inside up to the first knuckle, Sherlock bucked. John twirled his finger around and around and when he found Sherlock’s prostate, he thought Sherlock would surely snap the threads. He must have realized the danger because he arched his back and froze, except for his head, which was thrashing back and forth on the pillow.

John grasped their cocks in his fist, surrounding them with his hand. He slid them, almost shoving up against each other. Sherlock lifted his head off the pillow to watch and John locked eyes with him as he rubbed them together. John arched his back but fought to keep Sherlock in view, struggling against throwing his head back. The sight of him, refusing to interrupt their connection, set Sherlock off and he came, with a cry, all over his chest. John held on to him and worked him through the last of his spasms. Then he let go of Sherlock and gripped himself tightly. He thrust himself into his fist followed with his own cry a few strokes later. His head dropped and he sat as they tried to catch their breath together. Finally John asked him, “Are you ok?”

Sherlock shook his head and said, “More than ok. Ok is not enough. That was something else. Come here, you’re too far away.”

John lay down on top of him, gingerly this time, shifting to accommodate their sensitivity and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s chest. John said, “I’m sorry love, that went way too quickly. I had such plans,” he said sadly. They lay there, sated and nuzzling against each other. After a few minutes, Sherlock said, “John. I want to hold you.” John hummed.

“Good idea.”

Sherlock jostled him. “John, I want to hold you now. Let me loose.”

John picked up his head and looked at him, puzzled. “I don’t have to let you loose. I’m not restraining you, Sherlock, remember? Pull yourself loose.”

Sherlock wriggled in frustration, “You said I was in charge, John, and I’m telling you to let me loose.”

John sat up gingerly, with his hands held apologetically. “You’re right, you’re in charge. That’s what you want, that’s what I’ll do,” and he snapped off the threads at his wrists and ankles.

Sherock groaned and stretched and then clutched John fiercely to him. He rolled them over so that he was now on top. He said, “I can’t break away from these chains, John. They’re yours.I don’t want to break them. Bad habit for me to get into.” And he kissed him.

**Author's Note:**

> You can buy [real spider silk](https://www.etsy.com/listing/541802145/one-gram-of-golden-spider-silk-rare?ref=pla_similar_listing_top-1) if you’ve got some spare change lying around and it is supposedly 6 times as strong as steel but I couldn’t get an answer about whether it could be snapped. Just go with me on this, ok? Otherwise consider it a marketing strategy, brand name or something. I don’t know.


End file.
